"Merry Christmas, asshole," Ruby greets Dean when he comes out of his room.
"And you, bitch," he responds. "Jo around?"
"Sleeping."
"Crap," Dean says. "I'll have to catch her later."
"You got something for her?"
"It's not much." Jo had responded so enthusiastically to the chocolate-based reassurance that Dean ended up buying her a family-sized candy bar for Christmas. He hasn't wrapped it, but he figures Jo isn't the type to care.
"You got a present for me?" Ruby asks.
"Getting to know me is reward enough."
Ruby snorts. "Go on, get out of here. I'm pretty sure lover boy's car just pulled up."
Sure enough, when Dean looks out of the window, Cas' abomination of an automobile is sitting in the parking lot. The man himself arrives a few seconds later, and they're at Sam and Jess' within half an hour.
Dean pushes a bouquet of flowers at Jess and, as promised, gives Sam a six pack of beer. In return, Sam tries to give him a cheque to cover half the cost of his new wheelchair, fails miserably, and eventually settles for making Dean take a five dollar bill and a voucher for half-price breakfast at Denny's.
"You're really not easy to do nice things for," Sam says exasperatedly.
"Trust me, I know," Cas sighs. Jess is busy in the kitchen, and Dean finds his way through there in an attempt to avoid the Dean Self-Esteem Team he suspects Sam and Cas are on the cusp of forming.
"Want any help?" he asks her. From what he's heard, cooking Christmas lunch is supposed to be stressful. Jess is leaning back against a counter, swigging apple juice from the carton and humming along to very decidedly non-Christmassy rock music.
"It's pretty much just opening packets, so I think I'm good," she says. "Thanks anyway."
"No worries," he says. Jess offers him the carton of juice, and he shakes his head. She puts it back in the fridge with a shrug.
"Keeping it classy," he nods.
"As ever," she says. She pulls up a stool (Dean's really not shocked that their house has a breakfast bar) and sits down. "So, how's life?"
"That's a pretty broad category."
Jess nods and reconsiders. "How's car stuff? Cas changed his mind yet?"
Sam and Jess know all about Dean's attempts to persuade Cas to upgrade. "He's stubborn, but I'm wearing him down."
Actually, Dean hasn't been looking all that much lately. He spends a lot of time on the car forum, but it's more to help other people than to look for Cas. The other day, he even came across a thread where somebody advised that the person 'ask dwinchester- he's another user on this site and he's pretty new, but he really knows his stuff'. It was followed by two posts from other users, neither of whom Dean knew, wholeheartedly agreeing with the endorsement. It was the most weirdly flattering thing that's ever happened to him, and he tells Jess about it while she 'cooks'. In return, she tells him about the week-long vacation she and Sam have booked over Valentine's Day and proceeds to nearly set a pan of sausages on fire.
After Jess has averted the crisis and they're back in the pleasantly calm stage of sitting around and waiting, she turns to him with what looks like guilt in her eyes. Dean looks at her warily.
"I need to get emotional for a second," she warns him.
"You probably don't."
"No, I do. I'm pregnant, let me have this."
Dean considers this and nods. "Go on."
"I'm-sorry," she says, the words coming out too quickly and merging together.
"What, is the food that bad?"
"You needed us, Dean, and I threw you out," she says, determined to press on. "I knew Sam didn't want you to go and you shouldn't have gone, Dean, and I'm so sorry. I should have been more supportive, I should have-"
"Okay- woah," Dean says, holding his hands up. "Stop it, okay?"
Jess closes her mouth and swallows, bracing herself for what Dean has to say.
"Jess, you didn't do anything wrong," he says. "Not a damn thing, and I'll swear that on anything you want. Maybe Sam didn't want me to go, okay, but he still knew it was the right thing. We all did. Hell, I wanted to go."
"I thought you hated me," she says, and Dean doesn't think that she meant for it to sound that quiet, that saddened.
"I hated everything," Dean says with a shrug, figuring that honesty is the best policy here. "Don't take it personally."
Jess laughs and sniffs, scrubbing at her eyes. Can people please stop crying around Dean? He's still trying to figure out how to deal with his own emotions without crawling into hibernation for weeks at a time; he really is of very limited use here.
"I don't hate you now, if that helps," he says. "And I sure as hell don't blame you."
"That does help," she says- and it's still quiet, but the sadness has gone. "Thank you."
"Are we done having feelings now?"
"You could move back in, you know."
Dean's taking that as a no. "What?" he says.
"I've been hearing from Sam how different you are, and seeing you lately… the care home is a great place, Dean, but you know you don't need to be in there."
That's… true, yeah. Very few of the home's residents have the level of movement he does, and even fewer can speak. Jo's close to his level of functioning, but she's declining all the time. It's not a very busy place, but at times, Dean still feels guilty about taking up a space he doesn't necessarily need.
"You're getting married, Jess," he says. "You're gonna have a kid."
"We have room for you," she insists. "We'd need to re-organise the house a bit, but that's easy enough to do."
"Jess…"
"Just promise me you'll think about it."
"I'll think about it," he agrees, more to make her happy than anything else. She squints at him in a way that suggests she knows exactly why he's agreeing, but the microwave starts beeping and distracts her. Dean takes that as his excuse to escape, only to return when he finds Sam and Cas midway through a mind-numbingly in-depth conversation on the usage of Greek in classical literature.
The meal goes about as well as could be hoped. Sam carves the turkey, so Dean can just stab at slices with a fork to get them onto his plate. He doesn't talk much- he's focusing a lot of his attention on not dropping his cutlery- and he ends up setting the fork down between each bite just to make sure, but it pays off. He makes it through the whole meal with no accidents.
Dean drinks a few cans of beer before Sam starts looking at him suspiciously, so he switches to soda for a while. They watch half a fairly terrible 'feel-good' movie before Jess switches it over to Die Hard, which everybody enjoys a lot more.
Their house has a strange layout- the main bedroom is on the ground floor, with the small room they're setting up as a nursery next to it. The change was done for Dean's benefit- the small room was his, and Sam and Jess moved downstairs so that if he ever wanted help with something, he could go and fetch them. Needless to say, he never did.
Sam and Jess look a little guilty over converting his old room into a nursery, but Dean doesn't mind- at least it means he can check it out. They've already got the crib set-up, and they're midway through stencilling a display of butterflies above it.
"Still thinking it's a girl?" he calls to Sam, who's asking Jess about something.
"Yeah," he replies at the same time as she shouts "It's a boy."
Apparently, they've decided against finding out the sex in advance, which Dean can't even begin to comprehend the reasoning for. He asks if they can persuade the doctor to tell Dean instead- promising that he won't spill the secret to them- but somehow, they're not on board with the idea.
Dean's the last one out of the nursery, glancing around Sam and Jess' room and noting the changes. It's been a while since he was last here, and they've done some redecoration. The curtains are different, the carpet too, and there's something tacked up above the right-hand bedside table.
"Dean, you coming?" Sam calls from the corridor.
"One sec," he shouts back, curious about the thing on the wall. He wheels himself closer, close enough to realise what he's seeing.
'HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM' the card reads, in shoddily-coloured blue letters. A small smile comes to Dean's face as he shakes his head softly.
"At least you're easy to keep happy," he murmurs, before re-joining the others.
Dean and Cas don't leave until late evening. By the time they get back to the home, Dean's starting to wonder if they should just forget about this whole 'gift' thing.
Cas looks as awkward as Dean feels. "I, uh, don't really buy presents," he admits.
"Same," Dean says. "I won't laugh if you don't."
"I doubt I was going to laugh, but alright."
They're still sitting in the car, the internal light flickering every couple of seconds. Dean swears, the car's started doing this crap on purpose now.
"It's shitty, I know," Dean says, handing the carrier bag over. He didn't wrap this one either, but he felt he should at least try and create some air of secrecy about it. "It's stupid. You don't have to have it if you don't want. I-"
"Stop talking, Dean."
Dean glares. "Fine, but when you hate it-"
Cas pulls the book out and turns it over gently in his hands, handling it like it's an artwork of tissue paper and crystal rather than an old, battered paperback.
"It's my favourite book," Dean says awkwardly. "A lot of people say Timequake wasn't his best- and okay, the writing isn't always great- but it's just… it means something to me, you know? I like it a lot, and I thought you might… yeah."
"Is this your copy?" Cas asks, running a finger down the cracked spine.
"Was," Dean admits. "I don't mind, I've read it too many damn times. I want you to have it- if you want it, I mean."
"I want it," Cas says firmly. He puts the book back in the bag, carefully wrapping the plastic around it. He holds it like he doesn't want to put it down, a look on his face that Dean can only describe as awed. "Thank you, Dean. This is… thank you."
"Yeah, well," Dean says gruffly.
"I wish I'd given you something more personal now," Cas says, reaching behind his seat and feeling around. He withdraws a flat parcel, wrapped in dark blue paper.
"Dude, who cares? Gimme."
Cas looks uncertain, but he hands it over. Dean rips his way into it and pulls out a stack of car magazines- three or four of the thick, expensive kind. On top of them all is an information guide to hand control cars.
"You mentioned them a while ago," Cas says, "but not since. I wondered if you still…"
"I'd honestly forgotten," Dean admits. He and Charlie talk more about movies than automobiles, and whilst the thought is always milling around in the back of his skull during painful PT session, it's more of a vague 'one-day' goal than an actual thing to consider. He opens the guide and something else slides out- a long, laminated piece of card. He looks at Cas and raises an eyebrow.
"I saw it in a gift shop," Cas says. "I liked it."
Dean's pretty sure it's supposed to be a bookmark. It's pale and un-patterned, coloured to look like parchment, and when he turns it over there are words written across it.
You do not have a soul. You are a soul; you have a body.
"I did some research on the quotation afterwards. It's often attributed to CS Lewis, but that's incorrect," Cas says, pulling at his sleeve. "I know it has Christian connotations, but there are obviously alternative-"
Dean leans over and kisses the anxious explanation away. "Thanks, Cas," he says softly. He tucks the bookmark inside a magazine. "Guess we don't suck that much at gifts after all, huh?" he says, happiness colouring his tone.
"I guess not," Cas says, and kisses him again.
From time to time over the next few weeks, when Dean opens or closes a book, he catches sight of the phrase on the bookmark and finds it hard to look away from. He brushes a thumb over the words, letting them stick like the seeds he and Sam used to throw at each other as kids, hoping they won't get shaken off. They don't.
Dean's new wheelchair arrives in the first week of January, and it's like moving from a Robin Reliant to a Ferarri. He and Charlie talk a little about different makes of chair, but their conversations are mostly focused back on hand-control cars now. She knows what to look for and what to avoid, what's good and what isn't, and he's taking her advice.
These days, Dean spends a lot of time with Jo and the more tolerable staff members, though he still hides out in his room or Jo's on Thursdays. He talks to Sam on the phone, and sees him in person when he and Jess visit. Cas visits after work and Dean stays with him at weekends, and they go into town a few times a week.
Dean spends the rest of his time reading, giving advice or having conversations on the car forum, looking up hand-controlled cars for him and foot-controlled ones for Cas, doing PT exercises and talking to Tessa, and just generally… doing things. On one completely average morning, as Dean sits in the lounge reading and determinedly ignoring the cake show on the television, he realises that he might actually be happy.
The recognition feels dangerous, like naming it might make the whole thing fall apart and dissolve in his still-trembling hands. For the next few days, his every action is cautious; Dean does not have a good track record with hope. Time passes, the sky doesn't fall in and magma doesn't pour from the skies, and eventually the feeling of fragility starts to fade.
One early morning in mid-January, Dean is lying with his back pressed against Cas' chest, sun streaming in through the window, when Cas murmurs "Move in with me."
Dean, for his part, woke up twenty seconds ago and is not yet capable of thinking rationally. "Okay," he mumbles, before he goes back to sleep.
He wakes up for real three hours later, yawning and feeling behind him for Cas. "Hey. You up?"
"I am now," Cas says irritably. Neither he nor Dean are morning people; they know by now not to take anything the other says personally before ten A.M.
"You feel like making breakfast?"
"You do it," Cas complains, wrapping his arms tighter around Dean's chest and burying his head in the back of his neck. After Dean started staying the night, Cas stopped using the high shelves in his kitchen. Dean can reach most things in there now- he can certainly make toast, if nothing else.
"Easier said than done when you've got the whole octopus arms thing going on," Dean points out.
"Nnngg," is the only reply he gets as Cas pulls him tighter. Dean laughs and then stops as a memory surfaces, wobbly and unclear.
"Cas?"
"Mmm?"
"Did you ask me to move in with you?"
There are a few seconds of silence, and then the arms around Dean's chest are pulled away. Dean plants one hand on either side of his body and pushes, propping himself up against the back of the sofa-bed.
"I think I may have," Cas says, frowning like he's just come across an exam question that was definitely not covered in lesson.
"Well, did you mean it?"
"Yes," Cas says. No uncertainty there.
Dean laughs, but Cas barely even twitches. "That's a really, really terrible idea."
"No it isn't."
"You want to give me any reasons for that?"
"I like you. I don't like not seeing you. It's a very logical decision."
"I'm a lot of effort."
"I lived with my sister for the best part of three years," Cas points out, "and her degree of paralysis was far greater than yours. I know what to expect."
"You're actually serious about this, aren't you?" Dean says, twisting to face Cas as best as he can. Cas nods, his eyes earnest and… hopeful.
"I could convert a downstairs room into a bedroom," Cas says, "or sell the whole place and buy a bungalow instead. Or buy a stairlift."
Dean has no intention of getting on a stairlift until he's eighty-four with two broken hips, but he figures that's not relevant right now. "Wow," he says instead. "I… wow. Shit, man. Can I think about it?"
"If you want," Cas says, his tone unchanged. He knows Dean too well to expect anything else.
Dean does think about it. He thinks about it a lot, so damn hard that he even talks to Tessa about it. She says the same thing that Cas did, the argument that a good half of Dean's mind is set on believing: that Cas knows what he's signing up for, that Dean's been ready to leave the care home for some time now, that it might take some work but that most good things do. She even acknowledges that he would get to 'end some unsatisfying relationships', which is a polite way of saying 'no more staring at Lilith and hoping she chokes on her food'.
The darker whispers in his head- the ones that say that Cas deserves better, that Dean is a burden, that it would be better for everybody if he was out of the picture altogether- have already been there for a long, long time. Facing them is less waging a full-scale war than it is pest control.
The day before Dean's birthday, he texts Cas one word:
You – 14:39
Yes
His birthday is a very good day.
Moving in is easier said than done. Cas' house might be okay for staying overnight, but it's not suitable for Dean to live in full-time. Cas keeps insisting he wants to downgrade, and he's found a one-story place nearby that he says he loves the look of, but Dean hates the idea of forcing Cas to uproot.
Sam and Jess are both delighted to hear the news (though Sam does attempt to have a serious, brotherly, 'Dean are you really sure' talk), and they offer to give Cas some of the stuff they kept around when Dean was still living with them- transfer boards, ramps, all that crap. Cas still has some things from when he lived with Anna, but neither he nor Dean really want to use them. Cas and Sam spend a lot of time negotiating and, for the most part, Dean leaves them to it.
Their planning is interrupted when Cas gets informed by his boss that he's needed for a mandatory training week in Denver, Colorado. He flies out on the 15th of February, and he is not impressed about it.
"I don't like planes," Cas complains five days before he's due to go.
"Then drive."
Castiel just looks at him. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to," Dean says, before his laughter gives way to coughing. Internally sighing, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Coughing's still a bitch, but there's not much he can do about it. Cas rests a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently, and waits until Dean's done.
"Classy, huh?" Dean comments, blinking teary eyes.
"You are many things, Dean, but I don't believe 'classy' could be considered one of them."
Annoyingly enough, Dean's pretty sure that he's getting a cold. He doesn't get them often- when they were kids, Sam was always the one who got sick, which strikes Dean as pretty ironic now. He's not hungry, but Becky starts getting all antsy when he won't eat, so he picks at the plainest food there is or chokes back shitty-ass nutrient shakes.
Sam and Jess come to visit the day before their vacation and fuss over him lovingly, like they're practicing for the first time their kid gets sick.
"Dude, it's a cold," Dean says the fourth time Sam asks if he's sure he's feeling okay. He's probably being a little more snappy than is completely fair, but his hands are hurting like a bitch- his head too- and the painkillers aren't touching it. "I can handle a runny nose. Enjoy Paris and buy me a crappy Eiffel Tower fridge magnet."
Dean returns their concern by wondering out loud if Jess is okay to fly, as she's starting to look like she swallowed a small planet. She hits him on the arm a few times and Sam assures him they've cleared it with her doctor. They promise to return with the requested crappy souvenir, and they leave to go home and pack.
Cas visits on Valentine's Day, but he doesn't stay for long- Dean's never been big on that sappy crap, and Cas has to be up early to catch his flight to Colorado. Cas doesn't fuss over him like Sam does, but he does make Dean promise to phone him if anything happens.
"You'd think I was the first person on Earth to get a sore throat," Dean grumbles, but he says 'yes' so that Cas will stop looking at him with those huge, concerned eyes. Despite how gross Dean knows he looks, Cas kisses him goodbye.
Being in bed at three in the afternoon brings back all kinds of unpleasant reminders, but at least now the curtains are open and Dean's sitting up. He uses his laptop a lot on the first day, but after a while, the glare from the screen starts to hurt his eyes. He switches to reading instead, but he keeps getting headaches, and they make it hard to focus.
The staff are monitoring him closely, but Dean's not being totally truthful about how he's feeling. He's not lying, he's just… phrasing things in a way that avoids triggering unwanted concern. After all, he's always had a cough, so why does he need to mention that it's gotten worse? It'll get better again eventually, and there's not much they can do in the meantime. Being poked and prodded and stripped and weighed will just make him feel worse, so he resolves to try and sleep it off.
Dean's so tired that he wants to lie down and black out for the next two years, but it's easier said than done. He sleeps and wakes, unexpectedly hurled into consciousness by coughing fits. He tries to muffle the coughs into his pillow, not wanting to draw attention, but his whole body heaves as it tries to clear the crap from his lungs. It feels like treading water in a lake, like he's half-submerged so that every inhalation brings him an equal blend of air and liquid. He wants to sleep, wants to make it all go away faster, but it's not working.
Dean wakes and finds he doesn't know what time of day it is, that he can't remember which day it is. He slips back into unconsciousness without warning and, when he next comes to, he can't remember if he's slept or not. He doesn't know how long he's been awake for, and he can't even say for certain that he is awake. His breath sounds like twigs catching on a metal drain cover, his head still pounding and his thoughts growing fuzzier by the minute. If he could only sleep, then he'd be able to think properly. He just needs to sleep.
"Dean?" somebody calls. Dean doesn't know if he's dreaming or not, but he tries to reply anyway, to tell them to leave him alone. The words are cut off, caught in a bubble of thick, gluey air that lodges in his throat and forces him to try and cough it up.
"Dean?" the voice comes again, and somebody clicks his overhead light on. Dean closes his eyes instantly, his body shaking with the effort of trying to stop coughing. He turns his face into the pillow but firm hands take his head and turn it back over.
"Fuck," the voice hisses. "Fucking Hell, Dean, you fucking idiot." A sharp, painful noise rings in Dean's head, and he winces. He realises after a few seconds that whoever's in the room with him has hit the Emergency Call button by his bed.
"I'm fine," Dean says, opening his eyes, but his voice is hoarse and the words are thick.
"Your lips are purple," the person- Ruby- says. "Do you know what that means, genius? It means oxygen deprivation. Damnit, I told Becky you had something worse than just a cold. Why the hell would you hide this from us?"
Man, there's a lot of questions there. Dean closes his eyes again.
"Oh, no, cowboy," she says, her hands tight on his shoulders. "No sleeping for you."
Dean hears the door slam open. "What's going on?" someone asks.
"I think it might be pneumonia," Ruby replies, urgency in her voice.
"I'll call 911," the other voice says, and a hand is pressed to his forehead.
"You're burning up, you total fucking idiot," Ruby hisses.
"Like you care," he mumbles.
"Maybe I do," she says. "Maybe I'd like you to open your goddamn eyes. Think you could give that a go?"
"Bitch," he replies faintly, but he forces his eyelids open. He can see Ruby only a couple of inches way- she's sitting next to Ruby, another Ruby on the other side of the room, one standing by the door, one turning to face him and smiling as blood starts to drip from her eye sockets and, somewhere in the distance, Dean hears brakes squealing-
Dean lets out a moan, low in the back of this throat, and somebody runs a hand through his hair.
"I know, sweetheart," Ellen's voice says. "We're gonna get you some help real soon."
There are too many people crowding around Dean's bed. He doesn't like it, doesn't want it, needs space. His skin is so hot, like it's on fire, like he's burning from the inside just like mom burned from the outside just like
and now there is someone pressing a cool compress to his head and speaking but he cannot make it out because it is all too much too loud and there are words and noises and sirens
sirens as the fire crackled in the distance and sirens as he dragged his body from the car and sirens now hear them feel them feel it
someone sliding hands under his back (take your brother outside) moving him onto something else (mom please no god no mom no) something cool still pressing at his face don't touch my face don't touch me
"It's just an oxygen mask Dean," a man's voice says. "It'll help you, I promise. It won't hurt."
don't touch me I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME people holding his arms down hands back and there's plastic pressing to his cheeks and somebody carding fingers through his hair and somebody touches a hand to the back of his neck and don't you dare you bastard only he's allowed to do that and
nothing
nothing
shouting bright lights blurring movement more shouting plastic pressing him down holding him back and then
nothing
quieter now calmer the beep of a machine nearby why do machines always beep don't the nurses get annoyed with the constant beep beep beep he would get annoyed yes he would
and the mask still on his face like a demon pressing grubby hands to his lips to keep him bound inside his broken shell and
"Do you know where you are, sir?"
no
No, he doesn't.
"You're in the hospital, Mr Winchester. If you can hear me, can you squeeze my hand?"
Soft flesh in the gap between his fingers. Dean clutches at it.
"Good, that's great. Do you know why you're here? No, don't try and answer- squeeze for yes, that's all I want you to do."
Dean does not squeeze. Everything is grainy, far-away. He is not here, not really.
I was real once
"Okay, then I'll tell you. Your carers noticed that you were very low on oxygen, so they called us and had you brought in. You have severe pneumonia, Dean, and we're not sure how you're going to respond to treatment just yet. I've got to be honest with you here- the odds are stacked against you. But you're a fighter, right? You're going to stay with us?"
He kissed me and I knew I was real
Squeeze.
"That's my man. We've got you on oxygen and on a lot of drugs, and hopefully they should help. If nothing else, your SATS levels are back up, so the symptoms of the oxygen deprivation should be gone really soon. That means if you were getting hallucinations or if you were confused or anything like that, it'll hopefully get better. Does that make sense?"
Squeeze.
"Good. I'll be back to check on you real soon, okay?"
Squeeze.
"Take care, Dean. Keep those lungs pumping."
Lucidity is shy in its return. The hallucinations have cleared but Dean still weaves in and out of sleep, the borders no longer as clear as they once were. His thoughts are slow and unwilling to rise to the surface, breathing like plunging a knife into his chest. There's a drip in his arm- more than one, actually- and whilst the mask is gone from his face, plastic nubs scratch at the inside of his nose. A machine by his bed picks out the steady tiptoe of his heart.
"Sir- sir, if you're not family-"
"I'm as good as. Please, I need to-"
Dean persuades his head to roll towards the door. There's a nurse- two nurses, now- trying to persuade somebody to leave. They aren't having much success.
"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Winchester really is very ill."
"Which is why I need to see him."
"We can't-"
Dean tries to speak, but all that comes out is a heavy, laboured cough, grating at his throat like spiteful fingernails. The nurses snap their heads towards him and he waves his hand, the tube in his arm clanking against the bed.
"Cas," he manages to get out as the nurses rush to his side. "Cas."
Cas is there, his hand finding Dean's. "Dean," Cas says, cupping Dean's head with his other hand. Dean relaxes into the touch, a tired smile pulling at his cracked lips.
"Cas can stay," Dean rasps. The nurses look at each other uncertainly, but then one shrugs slightly and the other nods.
"You need to come and tell us if anything happens," one tells Cas firmly. "The machine beeps, his pain gets worse, anything at all you're not sure about- tell us right away."
"Yes," Cas says after a second, clearly distracted.
"Mr Novak-"
"Yes, I understand," Cas says, and after one more uncertain look, the nurses leave them alone. Cas drags the visitors' chair over to sit by Dean, holding one of Dean's hands in both of his.
Dean's room is dimly lit, though the corridor outside is dark. "What time is it?" he asks. His voice doesn't sound like his own.
"About three fifteen," Cas replies.
"Day?"
"Mon- Tuesday, now. Tuesday the 19th. You were brought about twelve hours' ago."
Dean evaluates this, before realising that he has no idea whether he thought it had been more or less time. His hands hurt. His chest hurts. It is hard to think.
"Sam and Jess have been told," Cas says, "but the first flight they can get out doesn't leave for another nine hours. They're hoping to get here for midnight."
Dean grumbles unhappily; there's no point in ruining Sam and Jess' trip. "Who phoned them?"
"The care home- Sam's written down as your first point of contact. He phoned me immediately afterwards."
"Why?" Dean complains.
"Because he wanted advice, and because he knew I'd want to know."
"You're supposed to be in Colorado."
"You're not supposed to be in hospital."
"Oops," Dean says.
Cas smiles briefly, but there's little humour in it. "You flew out early?" Dean says disapprovingly.
"No, I drove."
It's an eight hour drive from Denver to Kansas, over five hundred miles. "You drove?"
"There were no flights soon enough."
"You drove?"
"I've had better journeys," Cas admits.
"What did your boss say about you leaving early?"
"I should probably inform her, yes."
"Uh, yeah," Dean says, before he's interrupted by another series of coughs. They're vicious, hacking things that sound dirty and dripping. He turns his head away from Cas and waits for the spell to pass. It takes a long, long time.
"Why didn't you tell anybody, Dean?" Cas asks. His words are quiet, would be lost in the background noise of machinery if it was anyone but Dean listening. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Because his hands were starting to behave like hands should, because Cas said 'move in' and Dean said 'yes', because he can make himself breakfast and people come to him for help and his kid brother is gonna get married and he's gonna be there. Because he was so, so close; because he was brushing his fingertips against normality, and he did not want anybody to tell him to sit down and stop reaching.
"I spent a long time being sick," Dean says. "I didn't want to-"
More coughs, his breath cracking and crackling. There isn't an inch of him that doesn't hurt. Anna died of pneumonia, Dean thinks. The sharpness of the reminder is somehow dulled, like being struck through layers of thick clothing. He wonders what dying is like, if the pain will get worse. Dean would ask, but he knows that Cas would tell him the truth, and he's not sure he wants to hear it.
"You stupid man," Cas says, bringing Dean's hand to his lips and mouthing it into his palm, the words like feathers as they brush across his hand. "You stupid, stubborn, self-denying man."
"That's me," Dean says, and he though he means to grin he forgets to. The edges of his vision are starting to go again. "I think I probably need to sleep now."
"I'll stay with you."
"Promise?" Dean says, and the way his voice breaks a little on the word has nothing to do with his cough.
"I promise," Cas says gently.
"I'm scared, Cas," Dean says before he can stop himself. There are not tears in his eyes, they are not threatening to spill down his cheeks. He is only gripping Cas this tightly because his hands do not ask for permission. "I don't wanna die. I don't wanna go."
"I know," Cas says. He doesn't promise Dean that he won't; Cas has never made a promise he cannot keep. He stands suddenly, dropping Dean's hand. He pulls at the sheets of Dean's bed, and Dean gets the idea. He tries to shift over, but his tubes tie him down and his bones are getting tired of holding up muscles that would so much rather be let go.
Cas holds him like he always has, high and close- though he's careful not to get in the way of the oxygen pumping into Dean's nose, the fluids sneaking into his skin.
"I will stay with you," Cas says again, his breath a kiss without lips, "so you should stay too. Talk to me. Tell me how bad my car is. Tell me which one I should buy instead."
Dean would like to shake his head, but he thinks that's a little ambitious. He rests his forehead against Cas' instead, eyelids fluttering closed. "Keep it," he mutters. "You can keep it."
Dean hears a sound, a small, muffled noise, and he does not opens his eyes because he does not want to see Cas cry.
"I don't wanna talk," Dean says, words slow and thick. "Why don't you talk to me instead? I like it when you talk."
His thoughts are skipping all around the place, light and liable to disappear at a moment's notice. He tries to reach out and grab one, but it slips from his grasp and straight out of his mouth.
"You make me feel real, Cas," he says, mumbling the words. "Keep me real."
"Okay," Cas says, and Dean hears him swallow heavily after it. "What do you want me to talk about?"
"Anything," Dean mumbles. "Stay with me. Anything."
After a few seconds, Cas begins to talk. He doesn't speak in English, and Dean is glad- this way, he doesn't have to try and pick out the meaning. He can just lie in Cas' arms and listen to the sound of his voice, a deep rumble like lightning-struck smoke, wrapping its way around Dean's body and keeping him safe, holding him together; whole.
He thinks it's Italian, but he wouldn't know. He feels himself sinking into sleep, but it's not like before, where he was yanked suddenly from consciousness without any choice or warning. This is like stepping into a warm bath, walking into the ocean and spreading your arms. He is stopped for a moment by the mention of his name- his full name, Dean Winchester, finding its way into Cas' tangle of delicate, unknown words.
Dean Winchester. Dean knows who he is. Cas does too.
As Cas speaks the name, he drags his knuckle down the nape of Dean's neck, a comfort-blanket of a touch. When Dean closes his eyes, it is with the acknowledgement that at least he has eyes. He is here. For now, if nothing else, if never again, he is real.
The TV is on but nothing is showing, a rainbow of static shuddering its way up and down.
"Dean?" a voice says. Dean groans.
"I know the TV isn't working," he says. "I can't make it work, okay? Dad didn't pay."
"I know he didn't pay," the voice parrots back. Sam's barely five years old, and Dean already hears so much of his own words coming back at him when Sam speaks. He's gotta start swearing less. "I wasn't gonna ask about that."
"What, then?"
"How come Daddy's mad?"
Dean keeps his face impassive. "What makes you think he was mad?"
"He yelled at you, and then he slammed the door."
"You heard that, huh?" Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face. He was hoping Sam had been asleep.
"He sounded really mad."
"It's my fault. Nothing you did wrong."
"What did you do?"
"Jeez, Sammy, would you leave it?"
"He said you were useless."
"I said leave it!" Dean snaps. He doesn't need reminding about that.
"I just wanna know what you did," Sammy says quietly, his eyes wide and lip trembling, and shit, Dean's got nothing against that. He sighs and pats the sofa next to him. Sam scuttles over and sits by his side, looking up expectantly.
"You know the tree outside?"
"Uh-huh."
"I tried climbing it," Dean admits.
"You said I wasn't allowed to climb it!" Sam says, outraged.
"You're not," Dean replies instantly. The tree outside is tall, one of the tallest he's ever seen, and whilst its many branches are sorely tempting to a nine year old's hands and feet, they're spindly and difficult to predict. Dean knows this, because an hour and a half ago, he put his weight on one and it snapped.
He had hit the ground with a thud, the air pushed out of him like stamping on a juice carton. He didn't fall far, but he fell far enough for it to hurt. He landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle underneath him so hard that he let out an embarrassingly loud shriek.
He had gotten up as quickly as possible, but Dad was already slamming the motel door open.
"What the hell was that?"
"Nothing," Dean said immediately.
"Don't lie to me, Dean. What was it?"
"I fell," he had admitted.
"From where? The tree? Are you okay?" Dad said it like concern was a long-forgotten language, his eyes glassy as he tried to remember which words to use. He didn't look good. Dean doesn't know when his father last slept, or showered, or shaved. Dean made him some toast yesterday morning, and he said thank you, but it was still there, untouched, when Dean went to bed.
"I hurt my ankle, but I think it's okay."
"Can you stand on it?"
Dean did so, wincing. "Yeah."
"Then you're fine," he'd breathed, relieved. His eyes had narrowed. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"
"I-"
"Didn't I tell you to look after Sammy?"
Dad's been really busy for the last few days. He's hunting a bad man- a really bad man, a killer. He's been in the kitchen all day- for three days now, actually- pushing pins into maps and spreading out letters and photos and notes in front of him. People are in danger, and Dad needs to focus on finding the killer to keep them all okay, so he needs Dean to stay quiet and out of the way and to look after Sammy.
"I have been," Dean insists. "I cooked him food, and I made sure he brushed his teeth, and I-"
"And if you broke your leg? Then what?"
Dean hesitates. "I don't know.
"You think you can cook for Sammy if you can't stand up?"
"No."
"What if someone breaks in and tries to hurt him? How are you gonna defend him when you can't even walk?"
"I can't. I wouldn't be able to."
"So you'd be useless, right?"
"I-"
"The answer is 'yes', Dean. You go and get yourself hurt like that, you're good for nothing, you hear me? You might as well not even be here," Dad spat.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You gotta be more careful, Dean."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry."
"Then get back in there and look after your brother."
Dean had scurried inside as fast as he could, and Dad slammed the door so hard it shook the wall.
"I fell," Dean says now. Sam's eyes go wide and he grabs at Dean's sleeve.
"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"
"I'm fine," Dean brushes off. "It was a dumb thing to do."
"I don't get why Daddy was mad."
"'Cause if I get hurt, I can't take care of you, idiot."
Sam doesn't reply. He's screwing his face up, squinting the way he does when Dean tells him there are no Fruit Loops left, and he's trying to remember how many bowls he's eaten to figure out whether or not that's the truth.
"That wouldn't be so bad," Sam decides eventually. "I could look after you."
"Shut up, no you couldn't."
"I could," Sam insists. " I make real good sandwiches." Sam's 'sandwiches' involve putting sugar cubes between pieces of bread and hammering at them with his fists.
"You wouldn't care that I couldn't pick you up?" Dean says, amused by the idea. "That I couldn't make you food?"
"Nuh-uh," Sam says, "'cause that's not why I like you."
"No?"
"Nope. I like you 'cause you tell me stories and 'cause you're funny and brave and you don't tell Daddy when I spill stuff or do silly things. You'd still do all of those things so it'd still be okay."
"Sure, sure."
"I mean it!" Sam says with the indignant fury that only a five year old can truly master.
"Does that mean I don't have to make you grilled cheese?"
Sam's eyes get even wider. "Do we have grilled cheese?"
Dean chuckles and ruffles Sam's hair. "I'll look." He thinks he remembers seeing a slice of cheese left in the packet, pushed to the back of the fridge.
He swings himself off the sofa and, from nowhere, agony pierces him like a hot poker. He cries out and when he looks down, he doesn't understand what he's seeing. Cartoon-bright white bone has gouged its way through the skin of his left leg, a good three inches jutting out just above his knee with scarlet blood soaking through his jeans. He tries to touch a hand to it but his hands are shaking, shaking so hard that he can't even touch his own skin, and the air reverberates with a vicious crack and he knows that his other leg has broken too, but he can't feel anything. The pain has gone, and he cannot feel anything.
The air is filled with the scent of burning rubber and he can hear sirens, somewhere far away- sirens or alarms, he can't tell. He's waiting for pain, waiting for anything, waiting for tangled metal against his flesh and glass snowflakes refusing to melt in his hair and for his left leg to move, gotta find Sam, Sam's by his side pulling at him with terrified hands but where's Sam? Find Sam find Sam find Sam-
"Don't go," somebody says, and Sam's lips are not moving. "You asshole, you goddamn asshole, I wouldn't leave you. Don't you leave me, don't you dare."
You might as well not even exist. You'd be useless. Left leg, move.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Think of how things were before.
Car manufacturers, Dean thinks, look backwards in order to move forwards. That does not mean they copy the original nut for nut and bolt for bolt; that does not mean they cannot learn, that they cannot grow. Dean looks at the nine year old and he thinks, there is worse to come. Silk ghosts over his face and lips press to the back of his neck and a woman laughs as she burns sausages on Christmas Day and he amends it: there is more to come.
"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?"
Dean is looking at himself, at his awkwardly shaped nine year old body, an embryo cramped inside a seed that has been given the watering can and told to deal with things itself. The blood comes and goes like flipping a holographic ruler backwards and forwards, but it does not matter. It does not matter, because such a thing as form is temporary. What he is here, now, this is what matters. He is spirit, he is soul, he cannot be destroyed or damaged or touched. He is unreachable yet able to reach out; he is unshakeable yet ever-present. He is real. That cannot be undone.
"Wake up, Dean," and that is Sam's voice now but still not this Sam. "It's time to wake up. Please, Dean, just wake up."
Dean closes his eyes with the intention of opening them in another place. The last thing he sees is the five year old boy by the side of the nine year old, taking his hand and promising it will be alright. It will be alright.
Castiel is making a habit of being ordered out of Dean's bed by medical personnel.
When Dean's eyes open, he finds Cas curled up in the chair, his hand resting on the bed. The split-second of peace Dean feels looking at him his broken when he realises something has been pushed down his throat, something too-big and determined to choke him, to send him back under. He gasps, arms scrabbling at his face and alarms jumping into frantic life.
A lot of people are saying Dean's name, a lot of people crowding around him and touching him. Someone is holding his hands down and he thrashes desperately, but they keep hold.
"Dean, stop," someone is saying, firm and authoritative. "You need to calm down."
He doesn't recognise the voice, but he recognises some of the others- Cas, Sam, Jess. Their hands are on him too, soothing him like an animal caught in a trap, and he lets his body slump back to the bed.
"Good," the nurse says approvingly. Dean doesn't remember seeing her before, and when he looks around the room, he realises this is not where he fell asleep. He looks back to the nurse questioningly and she steps back, letting his hands go.
"Hello, Dean," she says with a smile. "We weren't expecting to see you again."
Dean glares at her. I don't go down that easy.
"You're in the ICU right now," the nurse continues ."You were moved here five days ago."
How the fuck has it been five days? He tries to argue, temporarily forgetting there's a goddamn tube in his throat. The nurse hears the soft choking sounds he makes and hastily explains.
"The reason you can't talk at the moment is that we had to intubate you- your lungs got worse, and we had to put you on a ventilator. I'm sorry, I know it's not much fun. The good news is that the worst is out of the way now. You're not out of the woods yet, but waking up was three-quarters of the battle. We'll keep an eye on you, and if everything's going well, we should be able to switch you back to the mask later today. Is that okay?"
Dean doesn't know how she expects him to answer, so he settles for glaring again. She chuckles and pats him on the arm.
"I'll be back soon," she says. "I'll leave you to your family. They've been here pretty much the whole time."
You don't say. Cas has got at least three days' worth of stubble growth, and Sam looks like he's been wearing the same shirt for a very long time. Only Jess looks relatively normal, which is explained when she tells Dean that she's the only one who's been spending significant portions of time away from the hospital.
"I would have stayed," she says apologetically, "but these two and the nurses wouldn't let me. Apparently, pregnant women shouldn't sleep sitting up in hospital chairs."
Dean's definitely in agreement with that; it's bad enough that Sam and Cas have spent so much of the past five days here. The next few hours pass in a strange, slow fashion, which he sleeps and wakes and coughs his way through. Sam's actually away getting a cup of coffee when the nurse turns up to remove Dean's ventilator, but Dean waves her on to go ahead. It's not a fun thing to experience; he highly doubts it's any more pleasant to watch.
The nurse gives him a glass of water to sip once it's out, and Dean does so gratefully, fighting the temptation to gulp it down. Cas stays by his side with one hand resting on the bed, as he has been ever since Dean opened his eyes. He's barely taken his eyes off Dean for a second, like Dean might disappear if he does. Dean finishes his drink and looks at Cas.
"This is the last time I'm gonna tell you," he croaks out. "You need more hobbies."
After that, telling day and night apart becomes a lot easier. His dreams stop bleeding into his waking thoughts, and whilst he's still coughing like his life depends on it (because it kind of does, actually), the nurses are pleased with his progress. After they move him out of the ICU, he has a constant stream of visitors. Benny shows up and tells Dean he's proud of him; Ruby brings Ava to visit, then Pam brings Channing, then Jody brings Jo. Ellen and Chuck come separately, and while Chuck only stays for a few, twitchy minutes, Ellen brings him a bag filled with books she picked up from his room. Bobby turns up, spends ten minutes calling him an idiot, and then gives him a very unexpected hug.
One morning, Dean awakens to hear somebody talking on the phone in hushed tones.
"- a few days yet," Cas is saying, "but they're using 'when' now, not 'if'. I know. Thank you. Yes, he does. We-" Cas notices Dean looking at him. "He's just woken up. Yes, alright. Goodbye, Inias."
"Inias?" Dean says incredulously once Cas hangs up. "When the hell did that become a thing?"
"A few hours after you were admitted," Cas says. "I was driving here and I rang him on my car phone. I needed somebody to talk to, but I didn't want to further worry Sam or Jess."
"Bet that was a fun call," Dean says. Your long-lost brother phones in the middle of the night to tell you that his gay, disabled lover (who you didn't know about) is doing his best to die of the illness that killed your sister (nice reminder there)- do you have time to talk?
"He's a very kind man," Cas says- and shit, Dean must have been sick if Cas is saying nice things about his family. "He's been a great help. We talk several times a day. He was ecstatic when he heard you'd woken up."
"And when were you gonna tell me all that?"
"When it became relevant," Cas says. "You've had a lot to cope with, Dean."
It's a fair point. Cas calls Inias every day, and a couple of times he hands the phone over for Dean to say hi. Any worries he'd had about Cas getting back in touch with his family are quickly dissipated; Inias seems about as malevolent as a garden snail. There's even talk of him coming down to meet them at some point, which sounds good to Dean.
After another two weeks, Dean is cleared to go back to the home. After another two months, he moves in with Castiel.
In some ways, it's kind of sad. Jo actually tears up, though she still manages to hit him when he teases her for it. Ellen, Pam and Jody all make him promise to come back and visit, Ash makes him swear to take care of the laptop, and Ruby hands over a colourfully wrapped package.
"The hell is this?" he frowns.
"It's from Ava. I took her shopping and we picked that out for you."
Dean rips the paper off to reveal a small, hardback book: 101 Things To Do With Cake.
"You suck, you know that?" he tells Ava. "You really, really suck."
The look in Ava's eyes can only be described as victorious. He promises to write (well, to get Cas to write), and then he's facing Ruby again.
"Try not to die," she advises. "I won't always be around to save your damsel-in-distress ass."
"And as much as that hurts me, I'm sure I'll find a way to cope."
"Asshole."
"Bitch."
"Take care, okay?" she says awkardly, gripping his shoulder and giving him a slight smile. He returns it.
"Same to you."
It's a strange moment, one which is broken when Ruby adds "And, you know, if your brother's marriage doesn't work out-"
"Goodbye, Ruby," he says, loudly.
He sees Ash, Channing, Chuck and a handful of other people before he goes. Neither Meg nor Lilith show up to say goodbye; Dean can live with that.
Cas ended up buying the bungalow he had his eye on, and he actually made money from it- his old house, being the beautiful place it is, got snapped up near-instantly. Cas insists that he's not sad to see the back of it. He told Dean that it was good to have a place he chose- that they chose together, actually, as Dean went out to visit a couple of times before they bought it. Cas has been living there for three weeks now, and he doesn't seem to dread going home as much as he used to.
Dean put some money towards the house, and he's planning to pay off a good portion of the mortgage eventually, but nearly all of their furniture is Cas'. Dean doesn't have much in the way of belongings- his laptop, his books, a few more personal things like photos and Cas' bookmark- and it only takes one trip to move all of his stuff from the care home to the new house.
Sam and Jess turn up in the afternoon to look around. Jess is ridiculously pregnant; she's due any day now, and she's very much hoping that day comes sooner rather than later. Sam is… handling it. 'Pistol-whipped' is the term Dean would use, but he's sensible enough not to say that around the happy couple.
There are a few steps by the door, but they've fitted a ramp over them, and the bed is low enough that Dean can handle the transfer easily. Because, you know, he has a new bed now. A double bed. Which is his and Cas', and isn't going to get tucked back into a sofa come morning or abandoned when he goes back to the home this evening. This is permanent. It's a scary thought- before the accident, Dean never spent more than a couple of months in one place at a time- but it's the good kind of scary.
That night, when Dean pulls the cord by the bed and turns the light out, there's something that won't stop bugging him. He's lying with his arms looped around Cas' neck, head resting against his chest, when he decides to just go ahead and ask.
"Hey, Cas?"
"Yes?"
"You know when I was in hospital?"
He feels Cas' body stiffen against his. "Yes?" Cas says, a little too tightly. Neither of them like to talk about that.
"What were you saying?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you were speaking in Spanish or whatever-"
"It was Italian."
"Fine, Italian. What were you saying? In English, I mean."
Cas is silent. "It was a long time ago, Dean."
"You're saying you can't remember?"
"I remember," Cas says.
"But you're not gonna tell me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Cas doesn't answer. Dean can feel himself getting pissed off, and he doesn't want to ruin a good day by getting mad. "You know what? Forget it. Night, Cas."
He doesn't get a reply. With a sigh, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep. Before he can get there, though, somebody begins talking.
"If I were being selfish," Cas says, his voice low but loud in the otherwise-silent room, "I would tell you not to give up. I would beg you to stay with me- I would order you not to let go. As it is, you already blame yourself far too much for things you cannot control, so I'll say this instead: I love you." Dean's breath catches in his throat for reasons that have nothing to do with his lungs. Cas swallows, shifts slightly, and keeps on speaking.
"I would love you if you could stand and walk, and I would love you if you could barely blink. Your body is no more than a vessel for your soul, and I have never seen a soul as bright as yours. I have loved it as I have loved you- ever since I first saw you- and I will love you still when we are no more than ash on the wind and memories in the minds of ghosts. I will not tell you not to go. I will not say you cannot leave. I can only tell you that I love you, Dean Winchester,"- and there he runs a knuckle down Dean's the back of neck, a silent link back to that cramped, otherworldly hospital bed- "and that I will never forget you. For me, you will always exist. That much, I can- and do- promise."
Silence again, now. "It probably sounded better in Italian," Cas says, sounding embarrassed.
"You remembered all that?" Dean says faintly. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it.
"I don't see how I could ever forget that night," Cas says- and then "Though I must admit that, in the following days, I became somewhat less rational."
He sounds ashamed. Dean remembers words trickling into a scene they did not belong in: you asshole, you goddamn asshole, I wouldn't leave you. Castiel has proven before that he can only put aside his own feelings for so long when it comes to the people he loves.
"Thanks for telling me," Dean eventually says.
"You deserved to know."
Dean goes to nod, realises it's pointless, and presses his head a little closer to Cas' chest instead. "Night, Cas," he says again.
"Goodnight, Dean."
It takes another four minutes of lying in the dark before he brings himself to just fucking say it.
"I love you too. Obviously."
"Obviously?"
"Obviously," Dean confirms. "I mean, have you met you? You're pretty hard not to fall in love with."
"In that case, I had better keep my distance from your brother," Cas deadpans. Dean smacks him good-naturedly.
"Go the fuck to sleep, Castiel."
Cas pulls Dean a little closer. "I'll see you in the morning," he murmurs.
It feels good, Dean thinks, to look forward to waking up.